


Angel in the French Quarter

by writingfics_giffingthings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU SPN S11, And this time we're not talking about his sexuality, Angst, Bobby Singer is Dean and Sam Winchester's Father, Christmas, Dean Winchester's Love of Christmas, Destiel love, Eventual Smut, Everyone knows but Dean, F/F, F/M, Feels, French Quarter, Heaven (supernatural), I'm a porn writer what is all this plot doing here, Louisiana, M/M, Multi, New Orleans, Openly Bisexual Dean, Rare pairs (Supernatural), Reaper Madness, Romance, Sometimes my tags predict the future (WIP), Soulmates, The Gang Brings Back Literally All The Characters, Vacation relations, by the way, ratings vary, thar be twists ahead - not tagging everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfics_giffingthings/pseuds/writingfics_giffingthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean has had a rough week. He takes an impromptu trip to New Orleans to spend some time in his favorite little tourist neighborhood, the French Quarter. There he meets Cas, who seems to Dean like a distant memory, or family he hasn't met yet. Is Dean going crazy? Will Cas scare Dean off with his obvious interest and lack of social awareness? What's Bobby doing here? All this and more, this week on, "ANGEL in the FRENCH QUARTER." </p><p>Playlist <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu">here</a>, if you're interested. I'll be keeping it up to date as chapters are added. You can listen to it in the right order on the Spotify desktop or web app. If you have the mobile app, you either need premium or you gotta listen on shuffle. Sorry, wish I could make this work more universally! Still... it's just for fun, and for free... :) </p><p>https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Six Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has had a rough week. He takes an impromptu trip to New Orleans to spend some time in his favorite little tourist neighborhood, the French Quarter. There he meets Cas, who seems to Dean like a distant memory, or family he hasn't met yet. Is Dean going crazy? Will Cas scare Dean off with his obvious interest and lack of social awareness? What's Bobby doing here? All this and more, this week on, "ANGEL in the FRENCH QUARTER." 
> 
> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu), if you're interested. I'll be keeping it up to date as chapters are added. You can listen to it in the right order on the Spotify desktop or web app. If you have the mobile app, you either need premium or you gotta listen on shuffle. Sorry, wish I could make this work more universally! Still... it's just for fun, and for free... :) 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu

Dean clutched at his gut and staggered backward till his shoulders butted up against the cement wall. The front of his shirt was saturated with blood, sticky and hot in his hand. He was trying to keep pressure on the wound, but the reality that it was a lost cause had become apparent. Of all the creepshow rejects and evil sons of bitches Dean had faced in his life, he'd never thought it would be a bullet that would take him out in the end.

Black was seeping in around the edges of his vision and his knees began to buckle. He was about to let himself drop to the ground, but as he lurched forward, ready to give in, every nerve ending in his gut screamed out at once in unbearable agony. He growled, locking his knees and straightening, shoving his back into the wall.

"DEAN!"

His brother's voice cut through the searing pain in his abdomen, finding its way to his conscious mind. He blinked away the dark threatening his sight, and found Sam's silhouette against the purplish twilight, Castiel holding a knife to Sam's throat. No, Lucifer. That was still Lucifer. Still in that damn coat, in that damn vessel that he had no right to.

Dean passed his dad's old Colt from its place, barely dangling in his left hand, to his right, letting go of the idea that he'd be able to get this bleeding under control. Instead, he channeled what strength he still had to raise the pistol and steady his violently shaking arm. He took a breath and held it. He confirmed his mark and focused on the familiar sensation of firm resistance as his blood-slick finger moved into place. He squeezed and felt the trigger's stiffness give way to a click, and as the jarring vibration of the pistol moved through his hand, Dean tasted blood and the world went dark.

~

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we begin our final descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed. Thank you."

Dean blinked his eyes open. He hadn't even realized he'd dozed off. He never, never took his seatbelt off in a moving plane, so he merely shook the cobwebs from his drowsy brain and stretched his legs.

"We're right on schedule to land in New Orleans at 10:57pm local time.". It's a warm fifty-six degrees, and calm on the ground at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport," the pleasant and distinctly Southern female voice went on.

The heavily-perfumed woman in the aisle seat to his left, who'd ordered two glasses of wine at the halfway point of their two-hour flight, was draining her second plastic cup of house Merlot and stabbing at her game of solitaire on the seat-back console like it was a life-or-death matter.

An infant a few rows up and to the right was starting to fuss, and his mother coddled and shushed it as the plane's altitude continued to drop.

The honeymooners across the aisle from him continued whispering conspiratorially in one another's ear, mischievous grins never leaving their young faces.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back toward the window. He'd just barely made it through the shittiest week in recent memory, and yet here everyone was, just carrying on with their lives. The rest of the band was just being totally unreasonable. They couldn't fire him. He was lead vocals, the heart of the band. If anything, he should be the one to fire them! Self-righteous assholes.

It didn't matter. He'd spent too much brain power on this stupid ordeal already. The French Quarter neighborhood of New Orleans was a single man's paradise, and Dean planned on taking every advantage of it. Everyone was there for a good time, and all you had to do to get in on that was show up. He was so ready to drink some drinks, chase some tail, and forget about this whole trainwreck of a week.

The plane hooked sharply toward the landing strip. Dean braced himself, but he had to admit the landing was smooth, and before much longer the flight crew announced that they'd arrived at their destination.

Again the voice crackled in as the jetliner coasted to the gate. "On behalf of United Airlines and your New Orleans-based flight crew, we'd like to thank you for flying with us and welcome you to the Big Easy." Dean considered switching his phone from airplane mode to normal, but only Sammy would even think to wonder if Dean had landed, and his kid brother (big bad lawyer that he was) would already be fast asleep by this time, so there wasn't much point.

"We hope you've had an enjoyable flight and invite you to join us here at United the next time you travel." The plane rolled to a stop at the gate. Dean unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his laptop case beneath the seat in front of him.

The flight attendant added a clipped, "who dat," to the end of her prepared speech, a nod to any Saints fans who might be onboard. It drew a few laughs from the passengers. Dean wondered how many shows she'd done that week as he watched her hang up the hand mic.

~

The cab ride to the hotel had been uneventful, though the roads were predictably chaotic. Even four days before Christmas, the French Quarter was full of sightseers. He'd gotten checked in at his hotel (right on Canal Street), freshened up, and immediately made his way over to his favorite little Dixieland club. It was midnight before he had a bourbon in his hand, but the band was going strong. He managed to find an open barstool in the crowded, kitschy establishment, and he slid in between two other guys, then swiveled to face the stage.

The music was great, solid as ever, the band leader blowing an effortless rendition of "Struttin' With Some Barbecue" for a full house. Dean didn't talk about his love affair with New Orleans jazz and blues with his friends much (and certainly not with the other members of his rock cover band), but he was at heart a fan of good, old fashioned American Rock and Roll, and the genres actually had a ton in common.

That was the problem with these kids in his band. They had no respect for their roots. They'd gotten into it a few nights back when he'd called the guitarist out during a show for falling down on a simple blues progression. He knew his ego could be tough to deal with, but he was the damn singer. His ego earned them a paycheck. Apparently the rest of the band hadn't seen it that way, and at practice this afternoon, things had gotten pretty bad. When he'd realized what the rest of the band meant to do, he'd quit before they could let him go, and he'd hopped the first plane to New Orleans.

And here he was, December 21st, halfway across the country from the only family he had left, an officially unemployed musician with a drink in hand. Well, he always had been great at dealing with his personal problems. He sighed to himself as the last, drawn out note of the song was drowned out by applause. The band slowed it down with a ballad, then; Louis Armstrong, Dean thought. He threw the rest of his bourbon back, then took the opportunity to lean across the bar to ask for a second while he could still be heard without yelling too loudly. He'd pulled a twenty out of his wallet, but then a hand was pushed his out of the way, and the man attached to it insisted Dean's drink be put on his own tab.

Dean stepped back, irritated at first by the uninvited contact, but then he saw the face that was hovering a little too close to his. Bright blue eyes shifted to make contact with his, and he was met with an expectant look.

The man was wearing a gentle expression, if not a particularly cheerful one. He looked serious, but there was a vulnerability in the way he held himself that made Dean look twice. The arch of his eyebrows and the almost-smile on his lips hinted at familiarity, but Dean didn't recognize the man.

"Hi. I'm Cas," the man said after a few long moments of silence, extending his hand and finally introducing himself. Dean shook the man's hand, slipping automatically into networking mode.

"Dean," he offered, his tone friendly but cool. "Good to know you." The man's eyes seem to soften further.

"The feeling is mutual," Cas said with seemingly genuine smile, releasing Dean's hand. "I hope you don't mind my buying your drink. You looked like you were enjoying the show, and I thought, if you felt so inclined, we might enjoy it together." Cas's posture visibly stiffened with his proposal.

Dean felt a smirk creeping into his expression. If this was all just some guy coming on to him, well, _that_ he knew how to handle. He relaxed into the familiarity of the old routine, setting aside whatever suspicion he'd had that this was some kind of hustle. Cas was pretty damn cute. And well-dressed. Dean always had been a sucker for a man with style.

"Sure, Cas. I could use some company after the week I've had." For itself, that was entirely truthful, though he wasn't holding himself to any strict moral code here. A good time was all he was after, just a distraction.He didn't figure this young man was betting on his happily ever after either, picking up strangers in a French Quarter bar.

"Have you had a rough week?" Cas smiled, though Dean thought he noticed a hint of disappointment in the man's eyes. For the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out what that was about. Why the look? He was awesome. Anyone could see that.

Cas continued with a smile, “Nothing you couldn’t handle, I’m sure.” Dean chuckled, then took a sip of bourbon, eyeing Cas. He noticed that Cas eyed him right back. He figured the guy was noticing the awesome now.

"Nah, nothing I couldn't handle. Sometimes it just ain't worth the fight. But I'm here now, and so are you, so what say we move our attention to happier things? What brings you to the Big Easy, Cas?" Normally this would be about when Dean would lean in, pretend to examine his shoes, or swivel his stool, before failing to move himself back. But this guy had already set the bar for personal space pretty low. He held his gaze steady at about 12 inches nose-to-nose and tried not to let his amusement with the guy's lack of social awareness show. Maybe Cas noticed anyway, because he straightened slightly, holding his head a bit higher.

"I live here, actually."

"You're local? Where's the crazy accent then? Did you grow up in Louisiana?"

"No, I'm.. I wasn't born in Louisiana," Cas laughed, his eyes crinkling. "But I came here for a man, and honestly, I never considered leaving." Dean thought he noticed hesitation, and maybe a hint of sadness at the mention of said Man, but everyone has baggage, and he decided not to press the issue.

"I'm a tour guide now at the cemeteries here in the Quarter," Cas continued. "And a pretty good one. I don't know what your schedule's like, but if you happen to be free one morning, tours start at 11. I could always add you to the list if you're interested. You'd be my guest."

"Well, I do love me a good cemetery," Dean laughed, keeping his answer to the invitation non-committal. Maybe it was just a friendly mention, but he felt a twinge of anxiety about the man's attempt to make plans so soon. Night time plans were one thing, but this seemed...date-like. "Pardon the line," he said, swiftly moving on, "but uh, you come here often?" He threw on his most adorable smile, aware that his dimples were now making their debut appearance.

Cas's eyes mostly remained narrowed as they chatted, an intent look on his face. But each time Dean would finish a sentence, he seemed to lose his ability to remain stoic. He had a smile that made his eyes dance with a voiceless laugh which shook his shoulders and transformed him momentarily into a different person until he could regain his composure.

"I do," Cas confirmed simply, his grin once again relaxing. The tone of Cas's voice was, Dean thought, a little overly affectionate, and he wondered if Cas noticed the blush rising in his cheeks.

"Hey, I would too, if I lived here. One of my favorite little spots in the city." Cas nodded, and then they were both again silent. Dean kicked himself for having made the dead-end statement. "So, how's tricks then? You have an alright week? Seems like you made it out alive." Cas's eyes widened at his last statement.

"Oh, yes, it was fine. And, eh, yes. Alive and well." Cas laughed nervously and smoothed his dark jeans along the outside of his thighs. "Just waiting for you to arrive, I suppose." He hesitated before glancing up to meet Dean's surprised expression. It was only an awkward moment or two before they both grinned.

"Well, wait no more, Cas." Dean winked, but his mind was racing. This guy was a fast mover. Or was he reading too much into it? He felt almost disoriented by the familiar way Cas spoke to him. He had no frame of reference but thought this couldn't be the way Cas treated every stranger he met. He decided his brain seriously needed to shut up. More alcohol. That was probably the answer. "I could use another drink. You want one?" He held his empty glass up and cocked his head in the universal gesture for, "Eh?"

"Love one. Sazerac, if you please." Dean nodded and flagged down a bartender.

The band trilled its way through the brassified dirge they used to punctuate "Saint James Infirmary" as their drinks arrived, and Dean slid Cas's drink to him.

"Your cocktail, sir," Dean announced with a slight bow. He chuckled, then looked up at Cas.

Cas gazed back at him with a steady calm that startled Dean, and held his gaze, wordlessly, as the band launched into its next number.

There were persistent tugs at Dean's heart as they held eye contact, and he found he couldn't ignore them, or distract himself, or write them off to the two drinks he'd had. No. No, no. Not this. This was not any part of the plan. He tried, and failed, to stop the panic he felt in his gut.

He stood abruptly, knocking his stool off balance but managing to right it in a clumsy one-handed maneuver. He set his drink down on the bar. He took a deep breath and looked anywhere but at the blue eyes he knew were following him, turned and cut quickly through the crowd and jogged out into the street, not chancing a single look back.

~

The morning breeze was brisk as it blew into the open air seating area at Cafe Du Monde. Dean finished his last beignet and took a sip of coffee. He slid his bookmark in at the beginning of the third chapter of _Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs*_. It was a good enough place to stop, and he had hoped to do some people watching while he was here.

It was getting close to ten o’clock and warming up, but it was overcast so Dean was glad he'd worn his thick leather jacket this morning. He took a look around the place. It was packed despite the cooler temperatures and holiday season. He hadn't had to wait for a seat though, which was unusual for a Saturday morning at the iconic cafe.

As the chatter of the late breakfast crowd echoed in the canopied space, Dean took a moment just to soak it all in. Surrounded by strangers was just how he liked to be. Sammy was the only missing piece, but otherwise this was shaping up to be a pretty damn good holiday vacation. Well, mostly. So what if he'd kicked things off with an awkward encounter with a handsome fella the night before? He'd just gotten out of a situation that he had never wanted to be in to begin with. He didn't owe that guy a damn thing.

That must have been why he couldn't stop turning the situation over and over in his mind. He just felt foolish. He could have said goodbye, at the very least. Thanks for the drink, early morning, jet-lagged. Something. But instead he'd shut down the nicest guy he'd met in ages in just about the cruelest way possible, and all in under fifteen minutes.

"Self-sabotage runs in a Winchester's veins." That's what Sam had told him so many times that Dean had more or less stopped listening to the little speech that invariably accompanied it. How his brother could be so self-aware and still such a dumbass, Dean would never understand. But Sam Winchester, Attorney at Law was right about that one, at least. Dean never passed up an opportunity to kick himself when he was already down.

Raking his fingers through his hair, he sighed heavily and, again, vowed to stop thinking a bout the whole thing.

"Jo, you have to talk to your Mom about the body. You can't avoid her forever."

Dean ears perked up, and he glanced over his shoulder at the table behind him. Body? Had he heard that right?

The two young people sitting at the table, a man and a woman, looked from their green aprons like they were servers taking their break together. The woman (Jo, apparently) looked to be in her mid-twenties, and had long blonde hair and a stubborn expression on her pretty face. The man looked to be a little younger, with shiny black hair and an equally challenging look in his eyes.

"Well, that's easy for you to say, Kevin. She calls me five times a day, I mean the woman won't give me a minute's peace. And she says I'm the crazy one! She's the one who won't bury the damn corpse. I cannot deal with her right now and I don't need to answer the phone every half hour to tell her so."

Holy deep-fried hell, they were talking about a dead person.

The young woman glanced over at him, and he realized he must have been staring. He panicked and fussed with his book and his empty plate, fixing his eyes on his table in an effort to eavesdrop more discreetly (or not at all if he could manage) but then he saw Jo walking toward him with a carafe.

"Hi there, more coffee for you?" she asked, smiling brightly, any hint of irritation hidden.

"Oh, uh, sure. Thanks." Dean did his best to pretend he hadn't been listening to their conversation, but as she filled his cup, she shot him a harsh look that told him she knew. "Hey, look, I'm sorry for overhearing. Busted, you got me." He gave her his most innocent grin and laughed nervously. "I just hate to see a pretty girl in distress. I didn't hear much, honest." She set the carafe on his table and slowly crossed her arms, looking him up and down.

"Well, you must lead a pretty damn boring life if listening to someone else's private conversation is the most interesting thing you can find to do." Dean's smile faltered, and he noticed Kevin coming up behind her.

"I - that is..." Dean fumbled for words.

"Jo," Kevin interrupted. "Is the gentleman bothering you? That's not the kind of behavior we expect of our guests here at Cafe Du Monde." The young man stepped closer, eyeing Dean with suspicion. "How about you and I go for a little walk and you can tell me all about whatever it is you think you heard."

"Whoa, whoa, I really don't think that's necessary. I'll just go back to my book." Dean raised his hands in surrender, heart racing. "My lips are sealed. And besides, I didn't hear anything. At all."

Jo's glare melted then, and she shot Kevin a smirk over her shoulder. A few seconds passed, then they both dissolved into laughter. Dean looked on in bewilderment.

"Oh my God," Jo cackled. "You should have seen the look on your face!" She smacked Dean's shoulder and gave him a wide smile.

"Sorry, man," Kevin said, putting his arm around Jo's waist. "Our job gets a little boring sometimes, and tourists are just so easy to mess with." He took a seat in the chair next to Dean,while Jo sat down across from him. They both looked so amused that Dean scoffed, his panic beginning to subside.

"O - kay?" Dean looked back and forth between Jo and Kevin. He thought he saw something like remorse in their faces, but then they exchanged glances and started giggling again. They seemed to be so delighted with themselves that Dean couldn't help laughing himself. "So there's really no corpse, right?"

"My parole officer is always telling me not to say anything incriminating to strangers," Jo offered with a devilish grin.

"Can we join you?" she asked, conveniently ignoring the fact that they already had. "We just got off work and we've been watching you for the last 20 minutes, Mr. Serious." She pouted, reaching across the table in Dean's direction. "Just thought you might want some company."

Dean was pretty sure this was not normal. What was it with folks in the city this weekend? Was there a sign taped to his back that he didn't know about?

"I guess...whatever," Dean said, searching Kevin's face for any sign that the guy understood how bizarre this all was. Kevin seemed guileless, grinning pleasantly as he grabbed Jo's hand underneath the table.

"We were just looking for a little fun." Kevin winked and leaned in toward Dean, lowing his voice. "Dating the same person for so long gets pretty boring, if I'm being honest." Jo rolled her eyes and whacked Kevin's arm, but her eyes sparkled as she looked back at him.

"We're actually about to go and get a drink," Kevin added. "I know it's like, not even close to noon yet, but it's the end of our workday, and something tells me you're not a stranger to day-drinking."

Dean looked around the cafe, incredulous, but no one else seemed to notice this rabbit hole he'd fallen into. He shook his head slowly, but he knew he wanted to say yes. They were just kids, and quite possibly very unstable ones. On the other hand, he did like day-drinking.

He shrugged.

"I'm Dean." He offered his hand to Kevin, who shook it briefly, and Jo waved, smiling more warmly now. "Nice to meet you psychos." They both laughed.

"Come on," Jo chirped. "Grab your book, let's go. I know this great little place by the Market. You won't believe their specials." Kevin made a face.

"Or their health code violations," he added.

"Oh shut it, you germophobe. You just don't know how to appreciate a good dive bar."

"All right, but don't come crying to me when you catch typhoid fever from a dirty beer mug."

Jo kept Kevin's hand in hers as they led the way out to the sidewalk, and Dean noticed with a touch of envy how good they were together.

"Do they have a pool table?" Dean called after them, jogging to catch up.

"Brother, they have a table reserved for me right now," Jo replied, and Dean didn't miss the challenge in her voice.

"Really, now? You know, I've always thought it's cute how they let women play, too," Dean teased.

"Cuter how fast this woman's gonna kick your ass, cowboy."

Dean grinned, feeling pretty grateful that the psychos had found him.

~

Cas stepped through the door of the run-down diner a few minutes before eight o'clock., Predictably, Bobby was already waiting in the corner booth with a cup of coffee. Cas walked over and slid in to sit beside him. Bobby looked up from his crossword.

"Mornin', Cas," he muttered, then licked his the tip of his pencil and filled in a few of the blank squares in his puzzle. Cas knew Bobby didn't sleep much anymore (there was no need in the afterlife, although many souls still found it to be a comforting part of their routine). Bobby seemed to think there were better ways to spend his time and only napped very occasionally. Still, he always acted somewhat groggy in the mornings until after he'd had his coffee.

"Good morning," Cas replied. "Have you been waiting long?" Bobby shifted, but didn't look up from the crossword.

"Now, Cas, you've asked me that same question every Saturday morning for about the past one hundred Saturdays, and I always give you the same answer." Cas nodded, and the old hunter sat staring down at the Saturday Times, probably waiting for a reply. After several silent moments had passed, Bobby huffed, but finally answered, the same as always. "About ten minutes, just enough time to warn the waitress you were comin'."

Cas smiled contentedly. He enjoyed their "weekend" routine. It was one they had begun almost as soon as Cas had come back to himself, and it had come to mean much more to him since he'd discovered Dean's unique predicament. Every seven days, they would meet at the same restaurant. Cas would order a coffee (he loved the smell, and the warmth of the mug in his hands) and Bobby would do his crossword before breakfast. Cas glanced at his watch, then realizing that the third member of their odd little club must be running a couple of minutes behind schedule.

"You're late," Bobby snapped, and Cas turned to see Rufus walking up behind him.

"Calm down, old man. I was just finishing my cigarette. What you got to do today anyway, that you're in such a rush?" Bobby scowled up at his old friend, but Cas perceived a hint of amusement behind his eyes.

"Just sit down, will ya? Figure out what you're gonna order." Rufus wagged his head, mocking Bobby's command, but he did sit down next to Cas, who slid him a laminated menu.

"Cas, I don't know why we put up with this idiot. I swear, he gets worse every day." Rufus smirked as he studied his menu. "Stubborn ol' sumbitch." Bobby studiously ignored the comment. Cas cleared his throat.

"Dean's back," he said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. The other men both looked to Cas as he spoke. "It's the same as usual. He doesn't remember anything. I think I may have scared him off, though." Cas paused, glancing over at Bobby, who now wore a more somber expression.

"Listen, Cas," Bobby started, but Cas held his hand up for him to wait.

"It's all right. I know it can't be me. Jo and Kevin caught up with him yesterday and he didn't remember them either. I mean, of course he didn't. It never changes." Cas paused, gathering his composure in order to continue. "He did spend the afternoon with them, though." Cas looked down at his hands, a fresh wave of grief washing over him.

"Cas," Rufus said in a low voice, his eyes again fixed on the table in front of him, "don't put this on you. Dean had a real crazy life. We all did, of course, but I think you and I both know that Dean dealt with things a little different than the rest of us. That boy took all the blame on himself, for everything. How could his soul but bear those scars?" Bobby nodded.

"He's right," Bobby agreed, then added in gruff qualification, "much as it pains me to admit it." Bobby lifted his hand and placed it on Cas's own hands for a heartbeat, then moved to pat the angel's shoulder gently. "It ain't your fault. Sometimes people don't heal all the way. Even in Heaven."

Cas closed his eyes, letting his friends' words sink in.

"I know," he said, his voice beginning to tremble. "In my head, I know. But I love Dean with everything that I am. And he's supposed to love me too. But right now, he can't even remember..." Cas trailed off, unable to finish the awful thought. His friends could only sit quietly. No words would be able to comfort him.

"It only gets worse," Cas finally managed. "Every time he comes back to me, and every time we meet again for the first time, it's more painful. To look into his eyes, now that I know how he felt, and not see love, but instead doubt, sometimes even fear. It's like a wound that's never allowed to heal."

Cas looked away, across the empty diner, watching flecks of dust float through a beam of sunlight. He wondered how many more times he could lose Dean before his sanity broke. His faith had never been more shaken. He knew he had to find a solution. Surely, there was an answer out there.

The angel silently resolved to keep fighting for something better. If anyone was worth all of this, it was Dean Winchester. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate it more than you know. If you feel so inclined, kudos, leave a comment, or both! It will totally make my day, every time. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank goodlookingsass for being the coolest beta ever. That's an understatement. If this is readable, it is thanks to her. Round of applause, girl, I'm so grateful to you! *queue Golden Girls music* Thank you for bein' a friend!! xoxo


	2. (Don't Fear) The Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Billie collude (sans clothing); Dean runs into Cas and tries to patch things up; Billie meets up with a surprising source who claims to have information about Cas & Dean, but she's none too excited to deal with him.
> 
> ***UPDATE 9/15/17 - working on new chapters! Also overhauling the music. Stay tuned, readers, and please subscribe if you haven't already!  
>  
> 
> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu), if you're interested. I'll be keeping it up to date as chapters are added. You can listen to it in the right order on the Spotify desktop or web app. If you have the mobile app, you either need premium or you gotta listen on shuffle. Sorry, wish I could make this work more universally! Still... it's just for fun, and for free... :) 
> 
> In case you're not reading this all at once, the music I picked for chapter two starts with (Don't Fear) The Reaper. And here's the URL for the whole playlist:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu

The roaring fire in the hearth of Crowley's chambers may have been overkill. It certainly added to the King of Hell ambiance, softly illuminating the tasteful wrought iron, stone and velvet decor. But over the course of the evening the temperature had risen from sultry and into the realm of sweltering.

A bead of sweat rolled down Billie's forehead. The absence of clothing, while a mirthful nod to the ridiculous nature of the pair's relationship, provided little relief from the persistent heat of the blaze. She swept the moisture away with the back of her wrist, then leaned toward the little chess table between them and moved her Rook into position behind the A-pawn. From here, hers would be a straightforward win.

"Oh, come now, Kitten," Crowley chided, eyes lingering on her exposed breasts as he spoke. "That's a bit rudimentary. What's the point of playing nude chess if you aren't going to take any risks?"

Billie raised a brow at Crowley, then straightened her posture and smiled.

"The point is you get a nice view while you lose," she teased. "Now quit stalling and get on with it."

Crowley narrowed his eyes, but did as he was told. Although he felt especially exposed, deprived of his signature suit as he was, he made a deliberate effort to put a pleasant look on his face, even sending Billie a flirtatious wink once he'd taken his turn. And that was the deal, wasn't it? You had to be naked in front of someone if you wanted to see that someone naked. So there they were.

Probably less than ten moves left. He got up to refill his scotch. "Anything for you, dearest?"

"Don't try to dull my sparkle with booze, you oaf. You know I know all your tricks." Billie adjusted her hair, not even a hint of inhibition or discomfort showing on her face as she made her next move and leaned back naked in her chair. It was one of the countless traits he loved about her. A detail that vividly encapsulated what Crowley considered to be her very best trait: unlike himself, she was not even the tiniest bit human.

As far as anyone else knew, their relationship was strictly sexual in nature, merely an amusing way to pass the unfilled moments in their schedules. This was intentional, a facade both he and Billie valued. In front of his underlings, he would affectionately refer to her as his "booty call." And she would in turn send him lewd messages in unsealed envelopes, to be delivered by whoever the latest assistant was, as though there was even a chance they wouldn't be read (and widely distributed) by the nosy bastards.

When the two spoke, even behind closed doors, they spoke as lovers of convenience. There was no such thing as privacy for the King of Hell. Crowley was fairly certain that there were no less than three eavesdroppers at this very moment. The less others knew about what they meant to one another, the safer it would be for Billie. It was tough to dispatch a reaper entirely, but not so difficult to trap and torture one. So for her sake and his, they kept up appearances. Nude chess. Casual late night visits. "Forgotten" undergarments, evidence of their trysts to be found by the staff. And absolutely no speaking about Love, or anything like it. The ground rules were in place and they were obeyed.

On this evening it was plain to Crowley that there was something on Billie's mind. The was possibly the simplest Rook and pawn end-game she could have planned. Normally she was clever, focused, and merciless. It was clear she wasn't trying, that her thoughts were elsewhere. What was wrong? Was she in danger? Crowley poured himself a generous finger of scotch, replaced the top of the crystal decanter and padded back toward his seat.

"Something on your mind, Kitten?" Billie gazed into the fire, and the subtlest twitch of irritation clouded her face when he asked.

"It's Dean Winchester. And Castiel."

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered. "Tell me the Ape and the Angel aren't up to their old tricks again."

"Oh yeah," Billie breathed with obvious anger. "God's favorite little pets, doing what they do best." She rose then to join Crowley where he stood near his chair. _Now would be the time for discretion_ , she decided. Moving to drape her arms over his shoulders, she spoke in a muted tone. "I swore I wouldn't let either one of those brothers cheat death again, but there are murmurs that Castiel is planning just that for his beloved human."

Crowley, having noticed his chamber doors were now slightly ajar, grabbed Billie's wrists and spun her to face away from himself and the doorway.

"Well, never mind them, my pet," he purred. "Dean's in Heaven, after all. How much trouble could he really be getting into, tucked away up there?" Crowley entangled the fingers of his left hand in Billie's thick curls and, with force he judged would sting only moderately, tugged her head back onto his shoulder. She arched, raising her chin to peer up at him. He loved the fierce glow her eyes would take on when they played rough, but he focused his attention. They had more important things to discuss at the moment. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "Can there be much trouble?"

"I'm afraid so," Billie murmured, reaching back to ghost her fingers over Crowley's hips. She wiggled her own hips back against him, quietly delighting in the way his concentration visibly faltered. "But I'm working on it, so try not to let it bother you for now."

"For now," Crowley repeated distantly, running a thumb along her damp collarbone.

"Right," Billie hushed, pulling away gently, moving toward the impressive four-post bed in the corner of the room. "Let's enjoy ourselves. I'll let you know when you need to worry."

"Oui, ma chérie, comme vous voulez." Crowley hummed obediently, lacing his fingers with Billie's. "J’ai besoin de toi." He knew his accent was imperfect, but the language of love always seemed to draw his lady's attention. She turned back to him, firelight illuminating her soft expression.

"Then you may have me." This was all the invitation Crowley needed.

~

Castiel stood in the tiny bathroom of his studio apartment. He'd been ready to leave for hours, but the fitted white dress shirt and khaki duster he'd chosen for today now seemed especially ridiculous to him. He ran his fingertips over the carefully maintained stubble on his face. Did he look enough like the Castiel Dean remembered?

What a waste of time. Castiel rested a hand on either side of the sink and bowed his head. Dean didn't remember him, not at all. Nothing could bring Dean back to him any sooner than Dean himself chose. Castiel knew that by now. Over the past two years, stuck in this heartbreaking cycle, he'd tried everything. Greeted Dean with fervor and with restraint. Dressed in everything from skinny jeans to tailored suits. Tried lavish gifts, reverse psychology, guitar lessons. And Dean always, always took just as much time as he needed to remember. No more, no less.

It was time to leave. If Castiel stood here any longer he'd risk missing his tour, and if Dean happened to show up... Well, he had to be there.

It was a sorry little stunt: showing up as soon as Dean returned and immediately asking him to meet at the cemetery, whenever he was ready. It reduced their love to a gimmick in Castiel's mind. But he was left with few options. It was the only event that seemed to repeat itself, the only pattern Dean seemed to follow. The cemetery was always a part of the story.

Castiel straightened himself up. Whatever it takes, he told himself. He took one last glance at his reflection, then he was out the door and on his way to work. On his way, he hoped, to Dean.

~  
  
The sun was just setting as Dean exited St. Louis Cathedral. He turned up his collar against the cooler night air as he made his way out onto Jackson Square, taking a minute to collect himself. He'd never been a particularly religious guy, but this was a stop he never missed when he was in town. Something about the beautiful old church had always moved him. His empty stomach brought him back to Earth though, so he pulled out his phone to see if he could find some grub nearby. He'd spent most of the day sight-seeing and hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

"Dean! Hey, it's Dean!" a familiar female voice called out from down the block. Dean turned to see Jo beaming at him. There was Kevin, too, and another man whose arm Jo was holding onto. If he didn't know better, he'd say that looked a lot like--

"What the hell you doin' down here, boy?" Jo shouted, releasing the slim man's arm to jog over to Dean. She greeted Dean with a bear hug. "We just can't seem to get rid of you!"

"Seems that way," Dean said with a laugh. He waved at Kevin over her shoulder as they embraced. "How you doin'? Hey, is that Cas?" She let him go and smiled warmly.

"Yeah. You two know each other?" Dean heard her words, but for a moment could only stare at Cas. He was wearing a gray pea coat and red scarf tonight, hands stuffed in his pockets. He gazed back at Dean with a steady expression, looking even more gorgeous than Dean remembered.

Jo straightened her stocking cap and stepped closer to Dean. "You okay, big guy?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. Yeah. Cas is the guy from the bar," Dean told Jo, though his eyes were still fixed on Cas. He started in that direction and Jo kept up just behind him. "The one I couldn't shut up about last night." He quickened his pace though he had absolutely no idea what he would say. He stopped short of embracing the man when he reached him, though that's what he wanted to do. A second chance. Silence filled the chilly air between them.

"Cas?" Dean finally asked, disbelief bleeding into his tone. Cas' eyes smiled back at him.

"Hello, Dean." A smile spread across Dean's face, one he couldn't help. As he studied Cas' pensive expression, though, it faded.

"Listen, Cas," he started, but paused. The little puffs of frozen moisture had stopped clouding around the man's face. He must have been holding his breath, waiting for Dean to continue, to say whatever he would say to try and redeem himself. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have left you at the bar that way and I feel terrible." Cas exhaled visibly at those words but his eyes dropped to his shoes.

"It's all right, Dean. It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. Damn it, it's not fine at all." Kevin and Jo had given the guys some space by then and were probably out of earshot. Dean leaned in and lowered his voice anyway. "I got scared, but that doesn't excuse what I did." He reached out to touch Cas's arm. "I hope you can accept my apology, Cas, but I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"Of course I do, Dean. I realized approximately ten seconds too late how my advances must have appeared to you. I was too forward. Anyone else might have reacted in exactly the same way." Cas' eyes had slowly drifted back up to meet Dean's, though they still darted from side to side as he recalled their last meeting. His cheeks were rosy, whether from the nip in the air or embarrassment, it was hard to say.

Finally, Cas moved a warm hand to cover Dean's cold one and sighed. "Besides that, we all make mistakes. Please believe me when I say that I feel at least as foolish as you do."  
  
"Well, I don't see how you could know that, but I take your point." Dean smiled and, in an effort to avoid any more awkward exchanges, pulled his hand away and reached for his phone. "What say we put this all behind us and start over?"

Cas put on a friendly smile and nodded.

"I'd like that. Have you eaten? We've just been out admiring the holiday lights, but we were about to go out for clam chowder." Cas had raised his voice to beckon the other two back over.

"Lord, I would almost kill for some chowder about now," Dean agreed. "Hey, I'm sorry I didn't make it to your tour today."

"It's just as well, I had kind of a rough day. We had a drunk and disorderly before noon. A woman set fire to a tumbleweed, then vomited all over my pants." Dean choked back a laugh and glanced down at Cas' tapered blue jeans, then back up at Cas. "Well, I've changed clothes since then, of course." Kevin and Jo were just catching up.

"So how do you two know Cas, anyway? Does everyone in this city belong to a special club or something?" Jo grinned and deposited herself between Dean and Kevin as the four began their stroll.

"Of course we do," Kevin chimed in. "Uniforms, monthly meetings, secret handshakes...and as you know, we occasionally deal in corpse removal. It's a hell of a thing, Dean."

"Well now I just feel left out," Dean sighed, and the others laughed. He was keenly aware of the careful distance Cas kept between them as they walked, but this was a start at least. As the bunch moved along the festively lit street, he could just make out a tenor sax winding its way through the last refrain of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" from somewhere across the square.

~

"Billie! My gal, my pal, the sugar to my cream, peanut butter to my jelly, swizzle to my stick. How are you, my sweet little death-bringer?" Billie's face showed not a hint of humor. She stepped carefully over the broken cement, making her way toward the keen-eyed devil. He shot her a grin from his post at the center of the destroyed parking lot and casually tucked a lock of golden hair behind his ear.

"Save it," she barked. "I don't know what you're up to, but I never trusted you and I'm not about to start now."

"Fine, fine. Don't let little old me cramp your style, honey. I'm just here to help."

"I doubt that. But you told me you have information about the angel Castiel's plans for Dean Winchester. And you seem to have cornered the market in that area. What do you want for it?"

"Well, now. Rumor has it you and Crowley are an item, so if there's no flexibility to that arrangement..." The man trailed off, mock-heartbreak distorting his sharp, attractive features. She glared, but said nothing. He cleared his throat but eventually continued, "I'll be direct. You found me out. A guy hides out in the Empty, he doesn't expect anyone to go poking around there, but then you came along. That's my little chunk of the Void, Billie. It's not much, but the neighbors are nice. All I want is your silence."

"I have no interest in revealing your secret," she replied without hesitation. "Anything else?"

"Give me your word," he demanded then, all of the levity in his manor gone in an instant. Then with a blinding flash of blue-white grace, the ground shook violently and the archangel presented himself in his terrifying true form. Billie averted her eyes, fighting the ancient instinct to prostrate herself before him.

"I swear it," Billie said, her voice trembling. "You haven't misplaced your trust, Gabriel." In the blink of an eye he was back to his human form, brushing the dust from his jacket.

"Sweet. Let's chat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: For the curious, the French language sentences Crowley used in the first scene are, roughly translated, "Yes, darling, as you wish," and, "I need you." <3 Ahhhhh, l'amour...
> 
> Again big thanks to my awesome Beta goodlookingsass for doing ALL the things! You're the bee's knees! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! You're a breathtaking work of art and I love you.


	3. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu), but it's a work in progress ^.^
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu

Huddled in a corner booth at the Frenchman's Club with Jo and Kevin, Dean found his toe tapping along to the house jazz quartet's holiday set. The three of them were a couple of drinks in and having a nice evening so far, but Dean kept his eye on the front entrance. He'd strategically positioned himself in view of both doors, just in case. Kevin seemed to notice his nervous energy.

"He'll be here, Dean. Any minute now," Kevin reassured him with a nod. "Just...try to chill out. I'll go get us another round."

Yeah, Dean was on edge. Not because there was anything wrong with drinking eggnog with a few vacation friends on Christmas Eve. If he was honest, there was more holiday spirit at this table than he'd seen in all his years of family Christmases combined, but that probably said more about his family than anything else. It really didn't feel like Christmas without Sammy's eyerolls and general Scrooginess, but that was not the point. What was really bugging him was this whole thing with Cas. Even after last night's apology, relations had remained, well, chilly.

Dean knew he was being ridiculous. So his feelings got hurt. Cas had every right to keep his distance. Besides that, it should have been easy to let this one go. Who got this hung up on a vacation crush, anyway? He glanced at the clock on the tavern wall and chewed nervously on his bottom lip.

Jo was just taking a stash of several felt Santa hats out of her bag (and threatening to wrestle one onto Dean if he wouldn't wear it willingly) when Kevin returned with a tray of fresh drinks.

"Hey, I want a hat!"

Jo promised him a hat _and_ a beard, so he quickly passed the drinks, putting a fourth to the left of Dean's spot. _Amber in color, with a twist_ \- Kevin knew Cas's drink order, Dean noticed with amusement, and maybe a tiny bit of jealousy.

Kevin held his hands out to Jo until she delivered on her promise.  "Oh yeah, Cas is here, by the way!" He stretched elastic of the cheap costume beard over his head and arranged the white fluff on his face. "He was just talking to someone by the bar."

Dean quickly stood to find Cas, wondering how he'd missed him coming in. He cracked a smile, his anxiety subsiding as he picked Cas out of the crowd. He was near the bar, speaking sternly to a shorter, trim blonde man. Dean’s eyes narrowed involuntarily, but he was quickly distracted by Cas’s brightly colored top. An ugly Christmas sweater? Dean hadn't pegged him for the type. He flagged Cas over once the other man (who was that, anyway?) had moved on. Cas's hard expression softened at seeing Dean, and he made his way over to their table.

"Hey, Cas," Dean greeted him with a warm pat on the shoulder. "Glad you made it."

Cas nodded as they slid into the booth. "Me too. I'm sorry it took me a moment to come over. I was just saying goodbye to Gabriel." Dean winced, wondering why he hadn't heard that name before. Cas seemed to notice.

"My brother," he added in explanation. Dean sighed in relief which he probably had no right to feel.

"Your brother?" Dean asked. "You should have asked him to join us."

"He couldn't stay," Cas stated simply, placing an armload of gift bags next to him in the booth.

After Cas was settled, Dean gave him a slow once over and shook his head.

"Cas, I have to tell you. That is one hell of a sweater."

"Thanks, Dean," Cas replied flatly, shooting Jo an exaggerated glare. "It was a gift." Jo burst into giggles.

"I think it's perfect for you," she replied wickedly. "The big blue sequins really bring out your eyes." She was still snickering as Cas continued.

"Speaking of gifts, I come bearing some," Cas said in his usual unaffected tone, handing out shiny silver and blue gift bags to everyone.

"Presents!" Dean almost shouted. "I had written this year off to bad planning, but look at that - a Christmas Miracle." He laughed, impulsively giving Cas an only slightly weird one-armed hug. Awkward as it might have been, it still made Dean feel all tingly.

"C'mon, Cas! Can we open 'em?" Jo blurted.

"Yes, please open them. Go on." Cas chuckled and watched the three tear through their tissue paper. Each pulled out a fancy chocolate truffle, a metallic mylar noisemaker, and a little wooden box.

"Be careful opening the boxes, they are filled with my Three Wise Men incense," Cas cautioned. "Hand made," he added in a proud tone.

"Incense!" Jo exclaimed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were goin' hippie on us!" Cas scoffed, and she put her nose up to the pretty miniature chest. "Myrrh, frankincense, and..." she trailed off, looking inquisitively back to him.

"Ambergris. Gold seemed a bit over the top for a gift that's meant to be burnt."

"Nice." Jo paused, her smile softening briefly as she turned to Dean, the mischief returning to her eyes. "He's not really a hippie. You could say this is all just part of his cultural background." Cas pursed his lips and looked askance at her. Kevin was taking a deep whiff of his little cedar box, ignoring the other two, and Dean decided he must not be the only one who wasn't in on the joke.

"Wow, this smells awesome," Kevin said. "Thank you, Cas!" Dean and Jo joined in the thanks, but Cas talked over them.

"It's fine, it's nothing. You don't know the best part yet. The noisemakers aren't for tonight. You have to keep them for next week. I'm planning to host a New Year's Eve party, and I would be honored if you all would join me." Kevin and Jo responded with delighted cheers, but Dean didn't know what to say. Cas looked over to him.  "Will you still be in town?"

Dean's breath caught in his throat. He'd been trying not to get his hopes up that Cas really had forgiven him, but this was a good sign. Really good. He'd have to change his ticket home. But he could do that. He would do that. Maybe best not to let Cas know he was already rearranging his life just to see him again.

"To be honest, I hadn't planned that far ahead. But I want to. Can I get back to you?" That sucked. He wanted instantly to take it back, to tell him he'd be there. That Cas had better save him a kiss at midnight. But he held it in and let Cas answer.

"Absolutely." Cas smiled warmly at Dean and raised his glass. Dean raised his as well. "I'll be anxiously awaiting your reply." Dean felt his eyes go wide and took a sip to mask his enthusiasm.

"Okay, everyone," Cas continued with a smile. "There is one more surprise in there for you. And we have to hurry, so look in the very bottom of your bags." Jo was the first to come up a winner. She held up a little booklet excitedly.

"Carol music!" she called out.

"That's it, and the rest of the carolers should be coming down the street any minute. Finish your drinks, and get one to go if you like. Come on!" Dean was genuinely surprised to see this side of Cas. This side of any of them. Damn, this much holiday sap and sweetness should have made him sick. Turned out, it made him ache for more.

The fragment of a thought nagged at the back of Dean's mind as he finished his nog. Christmas. He should call Sammy, but then, that's right, he couldn't. People were leaving. He got up to follow, and in all the noise and commotion he never did get to the end of that thought.

~

The air smelled strongly of wet, rotting leaves as Sam trudged through the cold. It was Christmas morning, the sun was rising higher in the gray skies, rapidly draining the vivid pinks and oranges of dawn from the horizon. He was on foot and already he'd put thirty minutes between himself and the bunker. Not much further down the unmaintained dirt road lay the graveyard.

Sam hadn't slept more than an hour in the past two days. His head was pounding, his stomach absolutely sick. It had been nearly two years since Dean's death, but the nightmares hadn't slowed down in the least.

Willing himself onward in spite of the ache in his chest, Sam could now just make out the decaying frame of the old country chapel. It stood about a hundred yards on, through the belt of leafless trees, just across the paved county road ahead. Every step he took seemed to grind his brother's absence more viciously into his mind, like broken glass into a raw wound.

 _Never again_ , he'd promised all those year ago, when Dean had been miraculously returned from Hell. _I'll never just move on if I lose you again, never let myself believe you can't be saved. I'll never give up on you. Not now that you're back, Dean._

That awful memory, the one Sam could not escape in sleep, now cruelly flashed through his conscious mind. His brother, the only person he had in this world, lying there on the cold ground. His face was papery and pale from blood loss, his skin cold to the touch. He was gone.

The tears were coming again, a storm he couldn't escape. Sam had never been so completely overwhelmed by guilt. _Never again._

Sam wiped his swollen eyes with the coarse fabric of his coat sleeve, trying to clear his blurred vision before crossing the road. There were no cars on this quiet morning, and he crossed silently into the churchyard and straight on toward Dean's marker.

There was a light dusting of fresh snow coating the ground and the stones in the small graveyard. Sam set the cigar box he'd brought on the ground and brushed his fingertips across the ragged edge of the granite monument. The deep gray stone was quite cold to the touch, not at all how he remembered it. He had cut, engraved and finished the stone himself in the months after Dean's passing. It had taken him a long time to get it right; he was no stone mason, but it had been important to him to create the headstone himself.

Sam had given his brother a hunter's funeral, not meaning to bury him at all. He'd gathered the ashes instead and driven out to a field by their childhood home. It was the field where they'd gone together as kids to look at the stars, and there he'd scattered Dean's ashes to the wind. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do, but even then he'd saved a pinch of the delicate ash in a vial and stored it away.

This graveyard was long forgotten now, the church abandoned for decades. No one had disturbed Sam when he'd placed the stone out here last spring. A second Christmas without Dean, the brother who'd always really enjoyed the holiday. And as much as it hurt, Sam knew it was time to lay the little bit of Dean that he had left to rest.

Sam leant down to retrieve the cigar box he'd set on the ground. He opened the worn lid, handling its contents one memory at a time.

The photograph of the two of them as kids, taking a break from their ice creams to grin up at the camera. They were perched on the rear bumper of the Impala, with a dusty motel ice chest as the only backdrop. It was a faded print, one Sam had a second copy of. Dean might have been six or seven in the shot. He wondered what in the world the two of them ever had to smile about back then. He bit his lip and dropped the photo back into the box.

Next the black rabbit's foot found his fingers, velvet soft as it had always been. Missouri had given it to Dean years ago. The two of them had a good, long laugh about it at the time, some sort of inside joke Sam wasn't privy to. Dean had managed to hold onto it through everything, which was a hell of a feat considering their lifestyle. It had clearly meant something to him, so when Sam had come across it while cleaning out the trunk of the car, he'd decided to add it to the collection. He dropped it back into the cigar box, amidst a few treasured concert ticket stubs, a faded "check yes or no" note from Dean's all-too-brief youth, their father's Leatherman, and an apple pie recipe card in their mom's neat handwriting.

"Dean," Sam started softly, before he lost his nerve. "I told myself I'd never let you go again. I promised myself I wouldn't give up." He pulled the trowel he'd been carrying from his back pocket and wedged it into the partly-frozen earth.

“But these last two years, man, I started asking myself who that was for. Turns out it wasn’t _for_ you. It was for me. So I wouldn’t feel so damn guilty.” Black chunks of icy dirt and dead sod were pitched to the side of a gradually growing hole. “So I could show you that I loved you.”

Thing is,” Sam’s voice was a little less quiet now, “I know you knew that. I know when all’s said and done, you deserve your peace. Your work is done now, brother.  His words began to break apart at that, and he stopped digging. The hole was deep enough for the cigar box now, and his eyes were filled and blurry anyway as much as he tried to blink it away. He placed the little box in the ground.

"Nothing I can do here would be better than to let you have your rest. But it'll never be the same without you. I'll never be the same." He took a shaky breath. "Anyway, it's Christmas. I know you always loved the holidays, Dean. Wish you were here to spike my eggnog, but maybe the bourbon's better in Heaven."

"I'm always going to miss you, but at some point, I gotta stop dragging this out. For both of us, Dean." Sam let himself exhale, lifting some of the weight on his chest. He brushed a little dirt back over the box, watching it fall in through the openings around the edges. Using the little shovel, he pushed the rest of the dirt, maybe a square foot of it, back into the recess he'd made, and patted the mound down with his hands.

"I don't know what I would have done without you," Sam said, finally allowing the thickness in his throat become a sob, and then another, and again until he was rocking forward on his knees in the cold morning light. The winter birds did not bother to hush their cries out of respect. Melting snow soaked the knees of his jeans. He cried there for what seemed like forever.

"It's so hard to believe you're gone," he eventually breathed, his grief waning once more. "But I hope you're okay. I love you." He patted the monument, then the dirt. It seemed such an empty gesture. "Say hi to Mom and Dad for me."

Sam breathed a final goodbye, then got to his feet. The dilapidated church loomed before him, and without really knowing why, he found himself approaching it. He took the three steps up to the entrance in a single stride and forced the old wooden door open, scattering dust as he pushed his way inside.

Little sunlight managed to filter through the holes in the steeple roof, but Sam could see that the narrow aisle to the altar was littered with dead branches and remnants of what had perhaps once been shingles. He stepped carefully over the debris and made his way to the front row of pews, which were stacked high with mildewed hymnals.

The large wooden cross at the head of the church was empty, a representation of the ascended Savior. Sam scoffed and shook his head at nothing and no one. _Ascended and gone and never looking back_ , he thought. No matter what literal hell the Winchesters had put themselves through, there was no help to be had from any deity now. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and did all he could not to pray.

The creaking of the church door startled Sam out of his reverie. He spun in his pew, and stopped short of pulling his gun when he saw who was standing at the entrance. His heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, Sammy. Long time, no epic fuck ups to get your adorable ass out of.”

_Gabriel?_


	4. Christmas In New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu), but it's a work in progress ^.^
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfics_giffingthings/playlist/7gcVGR60huwfFMbjtB7Bpu

Dean wiped his lips clean and threw the cloth napkin onto the table. He had to give up. The Christmas lunch buffet had been amazing, but after plates and plates of turkey, prime rib, oyster dressing, crispy fried okra, jambalaya, cranberry pumpkin pie, and a praline cookie, well! Even Dean Winchester had his limits.

Dean's getaway was back on track. Christmas day was here, and he was, as originally planned, finally alone. Yes, he was totally free to do whatever he pleased. As much fun as he'd had with Cas, Jo, and Kevin last night, he'd come here to clear his head. Right? So he was doing that, now.

Well, that was the theory. The persistent, irritating truth that what Dean was drowning loneliness in holiday grub and bottomless mimosas? He was doing his best to push that down. People who were lonely on Christmas mostly deserved to be. And damn it, Dean just didn't feel much like thinking about that. He polished off the remaining orangey goodness in his flute in one shot.

Unreasonably stuffed, Dean paid the bill without looking at the total (he definitely didn't want to know), and walked back to his hotel. He figured he'd turn on a game, unbutton his jeans and maybe take a little nap. Then later, once his stomach had settled, he'd get started on his traditional Christmas bender.  _Nothing sad or lonely about that_ , he told himself. Whatever. He had lots to drink about this year.

~

_Dear Diary,_

_Hot damn. I haven't had a Christmas this exciting since...well, probably since that time Cas fucked up his mission to keep a seal from breaking and wound up playing a donkey in a Nativity play in Moscow. Ha! That was a good year._

_Speaking of epic SNAFUs, Sammyboy almost summoned a crossroads demon today. By accident. Only a fucking Winchester, I swear to Dad. And who keeps a lucky cat's foot around, anyway? John and Mary made some clumsy, clumsy babies, that is for damn sure. Anyway, it was lucky for him I've been keeping tabs on him, and picked up the deal before any red-eyed lowlife had the chance to._

_He looked so brokenhearted, sitting there by himself in a musty old church pew. And as always, in a choice between sacrificing his own happiness to save Dean, and_ also  _sacrificing his own happiness to save Dean, he totally missed the third option. Moi. I filled him in._

_The only tiny, miniscule detail I haven't quite got squared away is that if Billie didn't already have a bulletproof reason to send Dean's ass here to the Empty, her loverboy Crowley now has proof that Sam tried to bring him back. Even if he didn't try. Fuck. Diary, I'm telling you. Clumsy babies. And it's not that I'd mind the company. Not often two people get to talk shop about the times they each lost a fight with Lucifer. But alas, I still have a soft spot for Cas and his weird obsession with the bisexual one. They’re better off staying safe in Heaven till I get all this squared away._

_So I got that to deal with. Sam's probably okay, for now. Still had enough chutzpah to cuss me out for trying to seal the non-existent deal with a little smoocheroo. Stubborn as a musk ox, as always. Or a moose! Damn it. Why did I write this in pen? Ah, c'est la vie._

_Anyway. Gots to go, still gotta convince my lovesick little bro to trust me when I tell him I've got a plan for him and his green-eyed beau. Hope it goes quick, even a trickster needs his beauty rest._

 

_No you hang up._

   _Love,_

   _Gabe_

~

Dean was just about halfway through his po'boy when the Seahawks scored another touchdown. He cheered along with the rest of the folks at the bar. The Saints weren't playing tonight. From all the aqua jerseys in the house he wondered if this was one of those weird little pockets of traitors, the kind you sometimes find hidden away in a town where you were supposed to support the home team without question. He didn't follow the Seahawks really, but he definitely wasn't gonna root for the Patriots. They just bought their victories, and Dean couldn't see the sport in that.

"Another Abita for ya, hun? Still happy hour for another," the older woman behind the bar glanced at the wall clock, which read 5:47, "fifteen minutes or so."

"Love one, thank you." Dean drained the rest of his beer. He'd done some damage with his first $20, and he had a few more bills designated for tonight. Honestly, he'd been amazed that six hours had been enough time to make room for more food and drinks.

Dean's thought was interrupted when his phone lit up and began to vibrate its way across the bar top. Text message from Cas.  His heart sped up as he opened it.

"Done with the family ordeal, thankfully. Merry Christmas." Dean smiled and quickly tapped a reply.

"Merry Christmas. Glad you survived. Watching the game and having a few. I just found out the people who work here are nice to you if you give them money, which is more than you can say for most of my family. Best holiday ever." He set his phone down deliberately, then watched a full set of commercials, considered his half-truth (Sam was the obvious exception to the family rule), and finally grabbed his phone again, carefully hitting Send. He was sure the text was too wordy, as usual, but at least there'd be no instantaneous replies from Dean Winchester. A man had to have rules.

A few seconds later, the phone lit up again.

"Are you in the mood for company?" Cas shot back, and Dean noticed the unapologetic promptness of it.

Um, yes. His company. Dean was in the mood for that any time. All this time-to-himself business had turned out to be less awesome than anticipated anyway.

"I was thinking of getting kinda tore up tonight. If you don't mind that, then hell yeah. I'm at CeeCee's Oyster Bar."

Hardly another moment passed before Cas replied.

"I'll be there soon."

Dean put the phone down and examined his greasy fingertips. He wiped them on his napkin, then wiped them with more vigor on his jeans. He straightened his shirt, dusting off the crumbs of breading that had settled into its wrinkles.  _Kinda dirty. He's gonna think I'm a total slob._ He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Holy hell!" Dean looked up to see a bewildered Cas looking back at him. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"I..." Cas stared for a moment, then snapped his mouth shut. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was on my way home and this bar is very near my apartment." Dean remembered to breathe somehow and cocked his eyebrow at Cas.

"So... but were you literally right outside the door?" Dean asked. Cas huffed.

"If you're asking if I was stalking you, the answer is no. I just happened to be about a minute away." Cas smiled a defensive little smile and sat down at the bar next to Dean. "Anyway, I'm here." Dean stifled a laugh. Somehow Cas's moodiness about getting there so quickly struck him as cute.

"Well, I'm glad you are. Let me get you a drink." Dean ordered for Cas, and although the bartender looked none too amused at the fancy pants order (this was a sports bar, after all), Dean hoped Cas appreciated that he'd remembered. Judging by the almost nauseated look on Cas's face and the fact that he didn't seem to notice his the bartender placing his drink in front of him at all, Dean didn't figure he'd earned any points.

"What's up, Cas? You all right?" Dean scooted the Sazerac closer to Cas in a last,  _very_ subtle effort to make him notice the gesture. It seemed to fail; Cas's eyes were distant.

"Fine," Cas muttered, staring at nothing. "Family time can be exhausting."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "It sure can." He knew a little something about family shit, but wasn't sure if saying so would even help.

Cas had opened up briefly about his family during the caroling excursion the previous night. Dean had gathered that they were a religious bunch, but he'd been left to draw his own conclusion about the specifics, since Cas had gone quiet about the whole thing after a vague reference to his father. Whatever the case, Dean knew the situation was stressing Cas out like crazy. He just didn't know how to help. They were not old friends, after all. Dean was irritated that he had to keep reminding himself of this fact.

Cas's eyes flitted up to Dean's own then, seeming to signal a desire to talk about something else. It was a bit of a relief. Dean was famously bad at being comforting. He gritted his teeth, knowing what he wanted to bring up, but feeling uncertain that it was the right time. But seriously, he had to rebook his trip home one of these years. If he didn't ask then, when was he gonna get around to it? His hands were clamming up, and rubbed them together.

_Screw it, here goes._

"So," Dean started hesitantly, "that first night when we met. What was that anyway?" Cas narrowed his eyes, looking like he was having some trouble deciphering Dean's words, but at least he was definitely paying attention now. This was way more vulnerable than Dean was used to feeling. But he'd already put himself out there. He figured he'd better keep going.

"Because I know we both felt something. Seems like we just reacted differently. I mean, the feeling I got," Dean paused, searching for the right way to put it. He took a breath and started over. "The connection we had, it was more than just a physical attraction, wasn't it? Cas, I know this is going to sound weird. And believe me, I'm not one of those reincarnation nuts or anything like that. But when I looked at you, I felt like we'd..." He cracked his knuckles and broke eye contact, staring instead at his own knees. He thought he noticed Cas shifting to sit closer. He couldn't get his brain and his mouth to work in tandem.

Finally Dean threw his head back and glared at the ceiling in frustration. He was so bad with words. He was also doubting himself immensely. His memory could be playing tricks on him. Serotonin was one hell of a drug, after all. He looked at Cas, defeated.

"Like we'd already met?" Cas offered gently. Dean's heart swelled.

"Yeah. Uh, yes, that's what I meant." Dean searched Cas's eyes for validation, and found instead only a reflection of his own loneliness. He'd been wrong after all. He swallowed back his embarrassment and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. "But that would be crazy. Cause we'd never met before."

Cas stared quietly back at him. Dean fought the urge to sprint out the door again. He spit a soft curse and grabbed his beer so he had something to fidget with.

"Sorry, of course not. I mean, it was just a weird feeling I had. You probably look like someone I used to know." He allowed himself a glance at Cas to gauge how much he'd freaked the guy out. Cas's gaze was still steady, if melancholy, but he seemed to be forcing a smile.

"Probably," Cas said, confirming for Dean that they were not after all long lost childhood friends, or teenage chatroom companions, or dorm neighbors, but strangers after all. He forced his own smile.

"Okay. Well, it's still Christmas. If you don't think I'm too crazy, I guess we could still hang out... maybe get to know each other better?" Cas nodded, and now there seemed to be some genuine happiness in his expression.

"I'd like that. As I said before, my place is pretty near here. I don't mean to put undue pressure on you," Cas quickly clarified, "But it would be quieter than this bar, and I have my apartment all decorated for Christmas. If you'd like we can walk over and open a bottle of wine." Dean bit his lip. He had a pretty clear premonition that he'd spend the next morning pushing his flight back as far as possible.

"Sure, Cas. Let's go."

~

Cas's apartment could only be described as cozy. He'd ushered Dean in through the narrow entryway, and offered him a glass of red wine and a seat on the only furniture in the tiny living room, an antique brown velvet loveseat. The room was a bit crowded with a delightfully large (and real) Christmas tree, decorated with strings of cranberries, waxy twigs, and little blue and white feathered bird ornaments. Cas had enjoyed decorating it, knowing that, if Dean returned in time to see it, he'd love it. He'd not been disappointed by Dean's childlike reaction, and the compliments that followed. There were a half-dozen wrapped gifts under the tree, none labeled, and a string of warm white lights double-wrapped around the solitary window.

Cas had picked up an old-fashioned record player somewhere along the way, which now sat in one corner of the room. Cas flipped through his small collection, then put his only Louis Armstrong on to play. He paced slowly over to the window, unable to shake the melancholy from his day, his talk with Gabriel, all of it. He leaned up against the wall, feeling the distance between them, but not knowing how to get rid of it. Dean smiled up at him. He did his best to return it.

"Do you ever think," Cas began softly, shifting his gaze away from Dean, but toward nothing in particular, "that we're all waiting around for a miracle, but maybe miracles just don't happen anymore?" In the ensuing silence, he could almost feel Dean wince, and immediately regretted his vague statement.

Dean gingerly placed his wine glass on the little wood crate which served as an end table, locked eyes with Cas and stood.

"Now why d'you ask that, Cas?" Dean was swinging one arm by his side, standing with his knees locked, earnest expression on his face. He looked just exactly as he always did when he was pushing through nerves, because, despite the difficulty he had in talking honestly about his feelings, he cared. Cas shook his head, hating that he could almost predict Dean's next move, while Dean had no memory of Cas's own idiosyncrasies, of his habits, of his heartbreaks and needs. He didn't know what to say to Dean right now. Nothing could explain to this new-again version of Dean that it hurt to watch it all happen again.

"It's nothing, Dean. It's just been a difficult week." Dean seemed to be unsure how to proceed. Cas watched his fists clench and unclench as he listened.

"I'm sorry I'm not a better host," Cas managed, knowing that none of this was Dean's fault.

Dean couldn't help that this kept happening, as far as Cas could tell. It just did. And the tastes of bliss were deposited just frequently enough amongst the bitterness of Dean's forgetting. Those, so far, Cas had been able to hold on to.

It was no one's fault that flirtation stopped being wholly what it should be when one is already deeply, totally, madly in love with the recipient of the flirtation.

It wasn't Dean's fault that Cas was now living one continuous relationship with the love of his long life, but that Dean himself was experiencing a brief tryst, over and over, each time for the first time. Cas was tripping over his thoughts, but felt Dean's prying eyes on him.

"It's not you," Cas almost whispered. "Not your fault."

"Hey," Dean breathed with obvious concern. He closed the distance between them with a few long paces, placing his body certainly close enough for the two of them to embrace, but decidedly not moving to do it. "What can I do, Cas? Tell me how to help." Cas let his eyes close as he listened to Dean's sweet voice, willing his hands not to reach for Dean's.

Enough of this, Cas decided. It would be soon. Soon he would be able to embrace Dean, to let his gaze warm with love, and to slowly show him what they really were. His own weakness was hurting Dean, and he was going to stop it, right then and there.

"Thank you, Dean. I'll be fine." Cas blinked up into the - the sweetness, perhaps, of Dean's eyes, if love was too strong a word for what Dean might be feeling. Perhaps, too soon. Perhaps, not soon enough. "I'll be perfectly fine. I just need you to give us a little time, which I know sounds ridiculous." Cas paused, noticing the warmth from Dean's body, so nearby. "Drink that bottle of wine with me tonight. Meet me at the tour tomorrow. I'll take you out afterward. Come to my party. Please. Just...give us a little time."

Dean was silent a few beats, just staring into Cas's eyes, maybe waiting to be sure that was everything, maybe something more. He did eventually nod, softly touching the outside of Cas's arm with his fingertips.

"Of course. Of course." Dean hesitated. "Do you want to sit down?"

Cas let out a muted chuckle. After all this time, neither of them knew how to handle this. It was still every bit as painful, every bit as tense, and every bit as beautiful as the first time Dean looked, really looked into his eyes. Cas tried to shake everything off. To just let himself enjoy the evening.

"Love to. Let me get myself a glass. Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?"

"Oh, Lord, please don't! I used to think 'eating till you explode' was just an expression, but after today I'm not sure." Cas smirked as he started toward the kitchenette. Just what Dean had hoped for on Christmas? Probably not. Cas had hoped they'd be past this point by now, too. The gifts under the tree would just have to wait.

Cas could wait, though. Time and again, he'd proven it to himself. He'd be okay. He'd hold on, and as much as he could, he'd hold on to Dean, love of his life, that jerk. And he'd hope with all that he was, that whatever Gabriel had in mind, it would make things easier for them. His dear brother had always had a way of coming through for him when it really mattered.

"All right, well I do have a freshly baked pie on the counter here, so let me know if you start feeling hungry." Silence from the living room, and the sound of wine splashing into Cas’s glass filled the several seconds that passed.

"Pie?" Dean finally asked, and Cas breathed in the moment of pure domesticity. It felt very human, or as human as Cas had ever felt. He wouldn't tell Dean that the pie was his favorite, though it was. He wouldn't tell Dean that it was his mom's recipe, though it was. He wouldn't tell Dean that he had baked it just for him, though he had. He would just wait, slice them each a piece, once Dean could bring himself to eat again, and maybe, accidentally, he'd smear a bit of freshly whipped cream onto his cheek for Dean to kiss off. And it would be fine. It would be Christmas night with Dean, and so it would almost be wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicking out two chapters at the same time, because of reasons. Thanks as always to Goodlookongsass for the beta reading and eternal patience. And thank you, reader, for your interest in a couple of Christmas chapters posted in May. <3


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